


All That Gold

by minijhi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Christmas AU, Gen, Set in Paris, i'm still looking for a way to write in Christmas elves, iwaizumi and oikawa have never met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minijhi/pseuds/minijhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi is a music-box maker’s apprentice.  For as long as Iwaizumi has worked for Irihata-sensei, every Christmas there has always been the one order, written on a post-it and tacked to the workdesk, labeled ‘Tooru’.  Throughout the seasons, over the years, Iwaizumi has slowly and irreparably fallen for the boy named Tooru.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is completely out of season! I started writing it last December, but I write the slowest of slow and with life and all that, it only just got done now.
> 
> Disclaimers: I know precious little of the music box making industry, of operas and choirs and classical music, have only lived in Paris two weeks my entire life and I completely made up Oikawa's grandfather and his name. That being said, it is Iwaizumi completely head-over-heels _for an Oikawa he hasn't even met yet but grew up with all the same_ , and I hope you'll enjoy it.

 Iwaizumi has the best job in the world.

“IWAIZUMI-KUN, WHERE DID I LEAVE THE BOX FOR SAKICHI HARUNA?”  Mizoguchi’s voice bellows through the shop.  A pile of empty gift boxes tumble out from the pile they had been stacked into, and glitter goes up in a puff by the entrance of the store.

The bells at doorway chime as the wooden arched door opens and Irihata-sensei steps in, stomping snow from his boots on the mat and inhaling a lungful of Christmas glitter.  A gust of cold wind blows in behind him, and Iwaizumi shivers, rubbing his hands over his exposed arms.  Mizoguchi quickly ducks out of the way, bypassing Iwaizumi into the workroom and throwing about the boxes in there.

“This is the worst week of the year.” Irihata grumbles, dusting sparkles off his coat.  “Next year we’re going to start gift-wrapping earlier.”

Iwaizumi, on his knees and picking up the boxes to stack them again, doesn’t reply.  Irihata isn’t expecting an answer anyway, he says the same thing every year.

“Iwaizumi, can you please come in here and help? I also need to get the boxes for the twins ready, and that model whatshername-san.”  Mizoguchi calls, and Iwaizumi obediently goes in to help.

The workroom is a mess, considering they’ve finished all the orders for the year and even Irihata-sensei’s large wooden desk is almost empty, only a few small crafting tools and paintbrushes left on the table. The remaining music boxes sit on the workdesk, in a variety of sizes and complexities, waiting for their new owners to come pick them up.

Mizoguchi has tied himself up in crimson ribbons on the floor and stands, nearly tripping on a rope of tinsel. There is an order of pale lilac roses sitting in a vase on the floor, to go with Maria Elbert’s Liszt music box.

“What are you looking for?”  Iwaizumi asks.

“Sakichi Haruna’s box.”  Mizoguchi says, scanning the room intently. “The mermaid one. Her mom’s coming to pick it up in less than an hour, and I have no idea where it is.”

Iwaizumi looks around the room.  There are a few music boxes with angels, one with bears, two toy trains, a dancing reindeer, but none with mermaids. He remembers seeing it earlier that morning though, when he’d been gift-wrapping a couple of other orders. Frowning, Iwaizumi pokes his head into the small kitchen, back out into the shop where Irihata is sweeping the glitter off the floor, and in the drawers under the display cabinets before he remembers where he’d seen it.

Going back into the work studio, Iwaizumi climbs onto the sink and carefully peels back the layer of paper on top of the cabinet beside it.  Underneath it, painted with twenty-two shades of blue and green, is the mermaid music box.

“You’re a lifesaver!”  Mizoguchi declares in delight, quickly hoisting the sizable piece off the cabinet and trooping off to look for a gift box for it. 

Left alone in the work room, Iwaizumi takes a moment to seek out his favourite box of the year.  It’s only a small box this year, but it’s hands-down the best box of the entire lot, though the Duchess Luzia’s briefcase-sized Winter Wonderland box is a close second.

Iwaizumi carefully lifts the lid of the box, letting the four walls of the box fall open.  Inside it is a much smaller wooden box, engraved with maps and a small family crest on the side.  Iwaizumi rests his fingers on the box awhile, instantly warmed by the proud feeling of hard work and dedication invested in this piece.  He unhooks the latch and opens the box

Almost immediately, the twinkling notes of Cinderella’s Waltz pour out of the box, and the crafted figure of a small child with a wayward scarf turns circles inside the box, tiny gothic houses going up and down with the music. The cobblestone walkways give way around the boy, and he eventually finds his way home to a house where the door opens and an old man greets him at the door with a hug.

Iwaizumi watches the box for a long time, until a log cracks in the fireplace, and Iwaizumi is jerked back into reality.  He traces the hand-painted stained-glass windows with his fingers, willing himself to close the box again, and finally does.

Letting out a breath, Iwaizumi stands and pulls up the walls of the giftbox again.  He does up the ribbon carefully, making sure both sides are even and fluffy. Red sparkles gleam across the shiny surface of the gold gitftbox, and Iwaizumi presses them into the box gently, so they won’t fall off during transit.

Outside in the shop, Irihata-sensei is standing by the display shelves, admiring his year’s handiwork. 

“Merry Christmas, sensei.”  Iwaizumi says. 

Irihata turns and smiles, nodding his head. “Merry Christmas, Iwaizumi-san. Thank you for your hard work.  Now hurry on home. You have a train to catch, right?”

Iwaizumi bows.  “Yes, sensei.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the doors, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck and bracing himself for the cold.  As he glances back into the shop one more time, Iwaizumi sees the pot of tea brewing by the counter, getting ready for Oda Hideyoshi.

“Merry Christmas, Tooru.”  Iwaizumi whispers, and heads out into the snow.

 

-

 

Iwaizumi remembers the first time he heard about Tooru. He’d been ten, before his family had moved to Arles, but when his father had frequently traveled back and forth between Japan and France.  During one of his trips to Paris with his family, the music box shop had been only a little ways from the hotel they were crammed into.  For three days in a row, Iwaizumi woke up early, shoved all his breakfast into his mouth and ran down the street to the store to wait for his parents.

Irihata lets Iwaizumi into the workshop that third day, and Iwaizumi nearly loses himself in the excitement of being surrounded by so many boxes, all in various stages of completion.  He tiptoes around the desks and shelves, eyes wide, and everything seems to glitter like a cave of treasures.  He’s halfway into a walk-in-closet that plays a Brahms lullaby when he catches sight of a wind-up toy train and quickly backtracks out of the closet.

“What’s that?”  Iwaizumi asks, almost knocking it over in his haste as he skids down beside it, hand hovering above a post-it that reads _Tooru_.

Mizoguchi laughs from somewhere far away, but Iwaizumi can’t tear his eyes away from the train to find out why.  There are blue patterns on the wood, complex, winding curls, and a soft steam-puff of cotton sprouts from the chimney, the smoke flecked with tiny stars.

“It’s beautiful.”  Iwaizumi says, and Irihata puts the toy into Iwaizumi’s hands. He feels a coolness touch his hands, and Iwaizumi turns the train over to find the bottom inlaid with white-blue moonstones, with lapis lazuli, with magic.  There is a key for the box beneath the gemstone pathway.

“Turn it.”  Irihata says, and Iwaizumi does.

Although it is too early to say how he feels about Tooru, Iwaizumi falls in love with music boxes at that very moment.

 

-

 

When his entire family moves to Arles the following year, Iwaizumi asks innocently, _“Can we go to Paris again, before I start school?”_

 

-

 

Iwaizumi wants to say it was easy, that he went to the store that second year and was offered a job on the spot.

It was not easy.

Paris is not a city for a little Japanese boy who speaks no French and wants to make music boxes for a living but can’t even tell the difference between Prokofiev and Dvorak.

Paris is a city for people who chase dreams, but having dreams and having them come true are very different things. They spend an entire month in Paris, and Iwaizumi patters over to the music box store religiously every single day.  In those early summer days, Iwaizumi remembers Mizoguchi being a little less disorganized, and Irihata-sensei an untouchable craftsman deity.  Irihata remembers him but says little, and Iwaizumi skirts around the shop, pretending to be thick-skinned enough to browse for hours.  Mizoguchi is younger then, Iwaizumi remembers, and he’s grateful, because it is college-student Mizoguchi who invites Iwaizumi in when Irihata isn’t around, lets him into the workshop to look at things, makes him dust the shelves and sweep the floor while Mizoguchi smokes and folds the pages of a dog-eared novel and complains about politics and freshmen.

So Iwaizumi works.  He cleans out the drawers diligently, putting everything back in its rightful place.  He climbs onto the shaky antique desks and wipes down the paintings in the frames. He arranges the tiny gears according to sizes and the glitter according to colour, he nearly gives himself heatstroke by cleaning every millimeter of the display window during midday. Mizoguchi drags him back indoors after he is done and tells him to stay put while he runs to the store to get them drinks.  He leaves Iwaizumi in charge, and in retrospect, Irihata is more than generous if even years later, he has yet to fire Mizoguchi for half the things he has done.

Iwaizumi is looking at several wooden goats and wondering where Tooru’s box is when the shop door opens again.  He turns, expecting it to be Mizoguchi, but instead finds Irihata standing at the doorway, looking down at him.

“I’m sorry!”  Iwaizumi blurts, bowing quickly.  “I didn’t do any harm, I promise!”

Irihata inspects the shop, eyes lingering on the bucket of soapy water propping the shop door half-open.

 “I’m sorry.”  Iwaizumi repeats nervously.

“I knew you were working here, Iwaizumi-san.” Irihata says.  “Sadayuki is never this clean.  My question is:  why?”

“I had to.”  Iwaizumi tries to explain.  “I—I really want to work here, sensei.  I really want to learn.”

Irihata smiles.  “I hired a boy once before, like you.  He didn’t know anything about music boxes, but he wanted it so badly, I saw it in his eyes.  There’s something magical about this line of work, isn’t there?”

Iwaizumi swallows and nods desperately.

“It couldn’t hurt, I suppose, to try. You don’t mind if it’s only for a week or two, do you, Iwaizumi-san?”  Irihata glances out the window.  “We’ll have more work in a few months, when the streets are colder, when there’s snow and wind and frosted icing on the cakes.  Would that be alright, Iwaizumi-san? Would you like to come back and help during Christmas?”

 

-

 

“What happened to that little boy, the one who wanted to work for you? The one you hired?” Iwaizumi thinks to ask, when he is back at the shop during Christmas.  The fire is warm and there are boxes everywhere, it makes Iwaizumi so happy.

Before Irihata can reply, there is a loud clatter and sizzle from the workroom. 

“Everything’s fine!”  Mizoguchi shouts.

Irihata raises an eyebrow and Iwaizumi dissolves into laughter.

 

-

 

Iwaizumi returns to help as soon as school lets out, every Christmas and summer after that.  He learns about the regular customers, the daughters of foreign ambassadors, rich girls in love with pretty boxes, rich boys in love with pretty girls, princesses, duchesses and Oda Hideyoshi.

Oda Hideyoshi commissions a music box for his grandson every single year without fail, a boy named Tooru.  He comes in on Christmas Eve to pick up Tooru’s gift, sits with Irihata in the shop after it has closed and on the old piano at the corner of the shop, he plucks out tune after tune, where he then chooses the song for Tooru’s next music box, the one he will pick up three-hundred-and-sixty-five-days later.

“Old things, to celebrate the new year. Old things are good.” Iwaizumi hears Oda says, just before Iwaizumi is leaving one Christmas Eve to go home.  “Traditions.”

“Kids these days.”  Mizoguchi says agreeably.

Iwaizumi finds it odd, but he’s not complaining. Usually Irihata finishes Tooru’s new music box by February, but because Oda only comes in on Christmas Eve, it means that Iwaizumi gets to admire Tooru’s box for nine months. There’s something about the boxes Irihata makes for Tooru that simply steal Iwaizumi’s entire heart— Iwaizumi figures it is because they are roughly the same age, and if Irihata were to make a box for him it would be similar, but at the same time, Iwaizumi has never quite loved any reflection of himself as much as he loves the boxes that are tailor-crafted for Tooru.

 

-

 

For all he knows of the boy, Iwaizumi has yet to meet Oikawa Tooru.  When he applies to college in Paris, he pretends this has nothing to do with Tooru.

It turns out that it has nothing whatsoever to do with Tooru anyway, because the year Iwaizumi moves to Paris, Tooru goes abroad to Italy to study.

 

-

 

Iwaizumi grows out of Christmas.  It’s a part of him he’s not sure he likes, and there are no latent reasons hidden behind an unhappy childhood that he can use to explain it.  His childhood is picture-perfect, as is every Christmas, family drawn together in the living room, exchanging last-minute gifts and retelling stories and regrets of a year well-spent.

He attends Christmases almost until he is a senior in high school— but there’s only so many times he can listen to ‘Silent Night’ sung by gaily laughing aunts and uncles, drunk on wine and merrymaking. Instead, he either lets himself be talked into going to a college party that he’ll regret going for later, or he sits home in his room and watches a couple of movies, reads a book, cooks something warm and delightful and utterly indulgent for himself, and just enjoy the quiet.

Once he’s in Paris for college, he stops going home for Christmas Eve parties.  He does however show up as often as he can on Christmas morning for his parents and younger siblings, armed with gifts and a sobriety that no one else has. He makes coffee, cleans the kitchen and picks up the wrapping paper off the living room floor, and then sits in his old bedroom until the rest of the family wakes up.

The year Iwaizumi turns eighteen, Irihata-sensei asks Iwaizumi if he would like to keep the shop open for Oda-san when he came by that year. Iwaizumi drops the jar of paint he is holding all over the front of his apron.

 

-

 

He calls his mother right before Oda is due to come in, and she clicks her tongue at him through his Christmas greeting.

“You be good now, Hajime.”  She says.  “I hate that you’re so lonely on Christmas.  What about that girl you met, what was her name? Didn’t you ask her if she wanted to go out?”

“No, mom.”  Iwaizumi says.  “I’m working tonight, anyway.  It’s a big honour, I’m really glad I’m here.”

“Well.”  She says dubiously.  “As long as you’re happy.”

Iwaizumi glances at the clock.  He’s nervous, deathly nervous, and terrified, but yes, he is happy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mom.”  Iwaizumi says, hangs up the phone and waits for Tooru.

 

-

 

Oda Hideyoshi comes into the shop at exactly a quarter to six.  Thanks to winter, it’s already dark outside, and the streets are quiet save a few Christmas stragglers, stumbling by under the streetlights, either late for their parties or already drunk and wandering.

“Tooru ran away from home.”  Oda says to Irihata with a long sigh as he puts his jacket up on the hanger.  “That boy.”

“Tooru did what?!”  Iwaizumi asks, forgetting to introduce himself first. Oda looks over at him.

Irihata waves Iwaizumi over.  “This is my apprentice, Iwaizumi Hajime. He’s offered to help make Tooru’s box this year.”

Oda studies Iwaizumi for a long while, as if appraising him for the catwalk instead of a dark work studio.  Iwaizumi tries his best to stay still and stand straight, and in the hushed silence Iwaizumi peers into the night beyond the curtain, all colour lost, like the boy somewhere out there.  His heart twinges miserably.

“Why did Tooru run away from home?” Oda asks Iwaizumi, startling him from his reverie.

“What?”  Iwaizumi asks.  Irihata places a hand on his shoulder, gesturing for him to be polite. Iwaizumi swallows. “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

“If Nobuteru trusts you enough to let you make a box for my grandson, surely you know him well enough to tell me this.” Oda says.  “Why do you think Tooru ran away from home?”

Iwaizumi glances over at Irihata only to find his sensei staring thoughtfully at Oda, in an approving sort of way. “Um.”  Iwaizumi says intelligently.

It takes effort for Iwaizumi to reassemble his thoughts into some form of order, and pick out from it everything he knows about Oikawa Tooru.  He knows Tooru had just returned from Italy and imagines that Tooru would be happy to be home, but he remembers other things too:  the stories of young Tooru, the relentless, determined, fiercely independent child.  Tooru is loving but he is also afraid, brave and afraid.  He is the kind of boy that goes out to the sea to find an anchor because a home and a harbour cannot contain him, and Iwaizumi wonders where in this world Tooru would go to find one.

Iwaizumi realizes he’s been staring into nothingness for a very long time.  He turns to Oda, apology on the tip of his tongue, but sees Oda merely waiting patiently.

“He’s looking for something.”  Is all Iwaizumi can say.  “I don’t know where he is, but he will go home to you soon.”

“Very good, Iwaizumi-san.  I suspect Tooru will be home when I return. I also suspect he may not need to be looking for much longer.”  Oda says with a smile, and goes to sit down by the piano.

Oda seems satisfied, but Iwaizumi is struck anew by a worry:  _if home is not home for Tooru, then where is?_

 

-

 

It’s close to ten when Oda finally gets up from the piano.  They’ve been working in near silence for a long time, and Iwaizumi finds that the shop is strangely quiet.  The radio has died down at some point during the night, and Iwaizumi realizes that he hadn’t heard Oda play a song for at least an hour.

Iwaizumi leans back, blinking from sitting up close with the tiny details of the box he’s working on and letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit shop.  There’s a comfortable, sleepy blanket draped over the entire room, and Oda slowly uncurls from his position himself, like a man waking from slumber.

As he pours Oda one last drink to keep him warm for the road, Oda doesn’t say anything about Tooru’s next music box.

Tentatively, Iwaizumi asks, “Oda-san, do you have a song or design you would like for Tooru’s next box?" 

“Oh, I’ll leave that to you.”  Oda says.  “By now, you know Tooru as well as I do, don’t you?”

“Wait, I can’t— I haven’t even seen him in real life.” Iwaizumi says, alarmed. 

Oda tuts, pats Iwaizumi on the head, puts on his jacket and leaves.

 

-

 

As soon as the shop opens again in the new year, Iwaizumi is pacing back and forth, dissecting the entire night with Oda aloud to Irihata and Mizoguchi and wondering what he did wrong. 

Irihata listens, but offers no help, just repeats what Oda had said. 

“How come you never made boxes for Tooru?” Iwaizumi asks, when he is helping Mizoguchi paint generous cherry blossoms onto a tree-lined sidewalk. 

Mizoguchi shrugs.  “Irihata-sensei never asked me to.”

Iwaizumi stares at him in astonishment. “But why me and not you, then? You’d make an amazing box.”

“Thanks.” Mizoguchi says, opening the pot of paint again and dipping his brush into it.  He offers the pot to Iwaizumi.  “Just because I can make a good box for Tooru doesn’t mean it would be the right box, though.”

“And I’m supposed to be able to make the right box?” Iwaizumi says, panicked now. 

“Sure.  You’ve heard our stories about Tooru.  You’ve seen almost ten boxes of his now, you know the songs he likes, the places he’s been.”

“So do you!”  Iwaizumi protests.

Mizoguchi frowns.  “You’re not backing out, are you?”

“No!”  Iwaizumi says quickly, because he genuinely wants to be able to make this box for Tooru.  “I just don’t know why it should be me and not you, or Irihata-sensei.”

“Tell me what ideas you have for the box.” Mizoguchi says.

“I don’t know what to do.”  Iwaizumi confesses, digging his notebook out of his satchel.  “I’ve thought of a couple— I don’t know, he likes ships and stars and oceans and _Jesus_ — aliens, and he’s been in Italy, right, so I thought maybe if I drew him a star map home?  Or made a tiny little Paris for him to come back to?  Or is that too clichéd?  I couldn’t find the right song either—he’s studying music, he knows these things, what if I choose something completely inappropriate?  What if he doesn’t like them?  What if I get it all wrong?”

Mizoguchi is looking at him in sympathy, and Iwaizumi suddenly feels embarrassed. It’s only been a week since he’s spoken to Oda, but Iwaizumi has enough material for an entire thesis.

“I just want it to be perfect.”  he says.

Mizoguchi looks down at him tenderly.  “Hajime, this is exactly why you are the perfect person for the job.”

 

-

 

So of course Iwaizumi worries about it. In January, he selects a select bunch of poems, builds sketches and chooses wood based on grain texture. In February, he scraps that idea and builds a porcelain house with a wind-up train running through it, snow dusting the rooftops.  In March, Iwaizumi designs a balancing act of the entire Milky Way, constellations intricately soldered, piece by piece, planets gravitating around the Sun, getting close but never too close.  In April, Iwaizumi has finals and spring break plans and puts the music box aside for awhile.

By early summer he’s finished it, a map of Paris and Italy built from ground up and painted down to every detail, but Iwaizumi still thinks it doesn’t feel right.

A week into August a woman comes into the shop and sees the box Iwaizumi made for Tooru.  “Can I buy it?”  she asks, and Iwaizumi sells it for the outlandish sum that she offers, because it wasn’t right for Tooru anyway. 

(He doesn’t know what is.)

 

-

 

Late October, Iwaizumi has built at least two other boxes for Tooru and sold them.  Irihata stands there and watches him work sometimes, scribbling frantically into his notebook, playlist on repeat, up to his knees in piles of sawdust and springs.

“It’s bad enough that I love the craft,” Iwaizumi overhears Irihata saying to Mizoguchi later, “I can’t imagine loving the person as well.”

Iwaizumi frowns and makes to call out in his own defense, but then he gets an idea for Tooru and is promptly distracted.

 

-

 

That very night, Iwaizumi pulls his first (but not his last) all-nighter in the music box workshop.  He spends it building an entire ocean of blue and violet blossoms, in varying degrees of lightness.  He digs through the drawer of ship-in-a-bottles, breaks some glass on purpose and others entirely by accident, cuts exactly eight sets of masts for Tooru’s ship and paints them different colours.

Iwaizumi watches the way the moon flickers outside the window, the smooth palette of the clouds and mimics it in the lining of the walls, feathering ghostly white layers over the purple valleys of flowers, captures a shimmering reflection of the lights in a make-believe silver ocean. At about five in the morning, the ship, left to dry by the window, is ever so carefully lifted and placed onto the glittering sea.

“Holy shit.”  Mizoguchi says when he comes in for the next morning and sees Iwaizumi sitting on the floor in front of the box.

Shifting his weight, Iwaizumi reaches out and flicks the light switch for the box.  The box changes from twilight to a vibrant, fiery sunset, every strand shimmering and sharp.  It glows a dancing, dangerous red and then flickers to the soft yellow of sunflowers, of honey, of wheat.  It is gold and alive, blinding and beautiful.

Every now and then there is a crisp static of electricity, a flash of lightning, faint streaks of ultramarine, and slowly, so slowly, the thundering, brilliant sunset falls silent, and the reds melt into blue, into purple. 

“Jesus.”  Mizoguchi breathes, and sinks down beside Iwaizumi on the floor to watch it again, which is exactly where Irihata finds them when he steps into the shop half-an-hour later.

 

-

 

The next year, Irihata gives Iwaizumi the same proposal.

For the second year in a row, Iwaizumi spends Christmas Eve with Tooru’s family instead of his own.  He pours the tea for Oda, and goes back to his workspace to work on the Duchess Priscilla’s music box.  Like last year, he keeps the radio down low.  Oda sits pensively, not moving, just staring at the music box, watching the ship rise and fall on the ocean.

He doesn’t go to the piano, not once.

“Thank you for being here, young man.” Oda says, as he stands and puts on his jacket.  “No girl to go home to?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head.  “No, sir.”

“Would be nice to have someone though, no?”

“My mother says the same.”  Iwaizumi says.  “She’s always telling me that I just need to find the right girl.”

The old man raises his head slightly to look at Iwaizumi.  “Perhaps, not a girl?”

Startled, it takes a moment for Iwaizumi to compose himself enough to reply.

“No, sir.  Not a girl.”

 The old man hums softly.  “My Tooru’s the same.”  Oda says, in what Iwaizumi feels must definitely be a breach of privacy, possibly even more so than all the other things Iwaizumi knows about Tooru, but the thought sends a surprising shiver through Iwaizumi. “He’s coming back early this year, I think the church wants him to sing for Christmas mass. But knowing Tooru, he’s probably worked himself to death this semester already.  I don’t know if I want him to sing for mass.”

 _What._  Iwaizumi thinks to himself as he reflects on the conversation later.  _What was that._

 

-

 

Like last year, Oda Hideyoshi gives Iwaizumi no clues, just smiles gently and leaves. 

Iwaizumi is so fucked.

 

-

 

“What does Tooru want?”  Irihata asks, when January once again finds Iwaizumi sprawled out on the desk, surrounded by glass castles and kings, knights and horses. 

“I don’t know.”  Iwaizumi says in frustration.  “How can I know?  I don’t even know who he is.” 

“Hajime.”  Irihata says sternly.

“Whatever he wants, I want to be able to give it to him.”  Iwaizumi says, burying his face in his hands.  “But I don’t know—I don’t—”

 

-

 

Oda Hideyoshi passes away in July the following year. Iwaizumi’s not sure if he’s expecting someone else to come pick up Tooru’s music box, but he finishes it anyway.

He makes a disc this time, a sky-bound mobile nightscape, a thousand cranes in flight by the light of the moon.  Iwaizumi weaves together the entire tapestry of intricate metal and glass paper cranes, and dusts the ceiling and walls with a network of tiny, glowing lights.  It is mysterious, ethereal and delicate, a wish given to someone who doesn’t have the time to dream. He sits through four operas in one go and starts perpetually living with his earphones on.

He spends three whole months looking for a song that Tooru may never hear.

Sure enough, no one comes to pick it up that December. That Christmas Eve, Irihata closes the shop for the day, and Iwaizumi spends his first Christmas Eve in a long time at home again.

Iwaizumi laments the loss of the old man, and also worries for Tooru, who, for as long as he can remember, has received a music box for Christmas.  His heart yearns to give the box to Tooru in consolation, but he doesn’t know where Tooru lives and doesn’t look to find out.

In the year that follows, he hears songs on the radio or finds etudes and ballads, and thinks, before he can help himself, “This would be perfect for Tooru.”  By March the margins of his notebook are corrupt with song names and music box ideas, and Iwaizumi has bought so many antique boxes and crafted so many tiny figurines that even Irihata-sensei has to remind him that he doesn’t have to build a box for Tooru that year.

Iwaizumi ends up building a box for Tooru anyway. It sits on his shelf right beside the one from last year, and by the year after that, on every page of his notebook, Iwaizumi has labeled his notes, again and again, _Tooru, Tooru, Tooru._

 

-

 

By the time he’s a senior in college, Iwaizumi’s friends have started pairing off, getting engaged and promising forevers, buying houses together or making five-year plans.  There’s a smart girl in the group that Iwaizumi’s sure everyone wants him to ask out, but Shimizu confides in him, when he finally caves in and asks her out for Christmas, that she has other plans, involving drafting her resume and reorganizing her flat and Iwaizumi laughs, confessing that he’d hoped to be doing the same.

Christmas week rolls by in its usual haphazardness, Mizoguchi losing boxes minutes before they’re supposed to be picked up, and Irihata holing himself up in the studio, mumbling inaudibly about starting gift-wrapping earlier and getting Mizoguchi replaced with someone who isn’t tragically allergic to organization.

Iwaizumi is the last in the shop this Christmas Eve, because it’s finally been decided that Mizoguchi is more harm than good when it comes to this particular day.  Irihata sketches out a couple more ideas into his notebook, drinks tea in his corner and lets Iwaizumi handle the orders, finally leaving before it gets dark. In the quiet, slowly darkening evening, Iwaizumi puts some music on and finishes cleaning the studio. He’s got no plans for the night, as usual, and there’s a comfortable warmth settling over him as he sits on the wooden floor and tries to pick up metal fillings with the wrong end of a magnet.

Before Iwaizumi knows it, he’s reached the end of his playlist and he’s sitting alone on Christmas Day on the floor of a dusty studio.  He supposes there’s something very sad about this, and he tries to feel suitably upset as he stands and stretches his muscles, stiff from bending over for too long.

Checking his watch, Iwaizumi decides he needs to be done for the day before he ends up dying in the shop.  Reluctantly, he turns out the light in the studio and steps out of the workroom.  In the low lighting of the evening, the display cabinets are masked a dark umber, and a long shadow is cast across the floorboards.  Iwaizumi glances over to see where it comes from.

There’s a young man standing outside the shop, back towards the shop window.  He’s leaning against the display window, a habit which Iwaizumi absolutely loathes. Iwaizumi ignores him as he packs up, pausing to look at the work-in-progress Swan Lake-piece they’ve been working on for the birthday of a foreign ambassador’s daughter. The young man standing outside the door shifts slightly, glancing back at him for a moment. 

Iwaizumi pulls on his jacket, slipping on his gloves and bag.  He leaves a small light on, and heads for the door, seeing the young man still standing out there in the cold, alone, and frowns.  He’s too young and standing too straight to be one of the city’s homeless, though it isn’t unheard of.  Iwaizumi sighs.

He’s considering shooing the young man away, or even offering him a couple of dollars to get himself a warm meal for the night, when he realizes that the jacket the boy is wearing looks oddly familiar. It’s old and worn, but still looks well cared for.  Iwaizumi tries to remember what the jacket reminds him of, and then it hits him: it’s Oda Hideyoshi’s jacket.

A knot forms itself in Iwaizumi’s throat, and he has to force himself not to duck back into the workshop and not come out. Courage threatening to abandon him at any moment, Iwaizumi takes a shaky breath and heads for the door.

Tooru turns as Iwaizumi opens the door, and Iwaizumi’s caught off-guard by the sheer beauty in the young man’s face, struck by how lustrous and warm his eyes are, mouth quirked in an ever-ready smile, downturned at the corner from a lifetime of inward conflict and loneliness. Iwaizumi instantly feels like he’s looking at a master’s painting, one of beauty yet riddled with war and destruction.

“I know who you are.”  Iwaizumi tells him, because he can’t think of anything else to say and he’s been staring far too long to pretend otherwise.

The young man smiles a little ruefully. “I’m glad you do, for I have no idea who you are, although I have my suspicions.”

Iwaizumi shrugs a shoulder.  “Try them.”

“You work at this shop.  You’ve made me the most stunning music boxes for years, and I— you knew my grandfather.  You made him happy.  You made me happy.”  Tooru looks up, and his eyes are bright.  Iwaizumi finds himself taken aback, not expecting Tooru to get right to the heart of the matter.  There’s something painful in the moment, and Iwaizumi finds his chest constricting. 

“There’s something I wanted to ask.” Tooru admits.  “I came by because I wanted— I always knew where you were, but last year and the year before that I just couldn’t bring myself to come here.  You know, this was one of his favourite places in the world.”

The wind rustles past them, and Tooru’s hair dances lightly in the breeze.

“I always wondered.”  Tooru says.  “I was just hoping you could—” he breaks off, casting an uncertain look at Iwaizumi.

Tooru takes a step back, insecurity clouding his gaze. Iwaizumi longs to reach out to touch him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I — you probably have more important things to do, a family to go home to, a girlfriend, I didn’t think— I should go—”  he trails off. 

“Hey.”  Iwaizumi says, holding his gaze.  “I’ve got no plans.  Besides, if anything counts as ‘important’, surely this does?  We’ve known each other for twelve years now and you don’t even know my name.”

Tooru looks up, eyes widening.

“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.”  Iwaizumi says, pulling off a glove and offering his hand to Tooru.

Tooru gives a choky laugh and shakes Iwaizumi’s hand. “Oikawa Tooru.”  He says, in return.  “You aren’t as mean as you look, you know, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi should want to maul him for the nickname, but for some reason he just finds himself looking at Tooru, painfully fond and unsure what to do with it.  He feels like he has a Christmas tree inside him, and Tooru just decked it sky high in lights.

“Merry Christmas, Tooru.”  Iwaizumi says, at last.  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In commemoration of the time my little brother struggled through the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ on the piano so painfully slow that my mom said it sounded like the ‘Twelve Years of Christmas’.
> 
> Twelve years of Iwaizumi and Oikawa growing up side by side, but not quite.
> 
> //
> 
> For image references of the kinds of music boxes Iwaizumi would have worked with, [here](http://musicboxmaker.com/) and [here](http://www.mikieleta.com/timepieces/la-luna/). I liked Thomas Morley and John Dowland for music, but then that was from Oikawa's point of view. For Iwaizumi's music, he probably dissected the whole universe of sound, so I'm afraid I can't give you suggestions for that, though he started off with classics, classical, musicals and operas.


End file.
